In the Spirit

of McPhineas Lata
Lauri Kubuitsile

This tale begins at the end; McPhineas Lata, the perennial bachelor who
made a vocation of troubling married women, is dead. The air above
Nokanyana village quivers with grief and rage, and not a small amount
of joy because the troubling of married women, by its very definition,
involved a lot of trouble. But, maybe because of his slippery personality,
or an inordinate amount of blind luck, McPhineas Lata seemed to dodge
the bulk of the trouble created by his behaviour, and left it for others to
carry on, on his behalf. He had after all, admitted to Bongo and Cliff,
his left and right side kicks, that troubling married women was a perfect
past-time which was all sweet and no sweat.
Women in the village of Nokanyana, named after a small river
that no one had yet been able to discover, were notoriously greedy, and,
without exception, surly. Husbands in the village were all small and thin
with tight muscles worked into knots because they spent all of their
lives either working to please their wives or withstanding barrages of
insults and criticisms for failing to do it up to the very high expectation
of Nokanyana women. For Nokanyana men, it was a lose-lose situation
and, as a result, each and every one of them despised McPhineas Lata
merely for remaining single he had made the right decision and they
had not.
McPhineas Lata, though thus despised by most husbands, was
adored by most wives. His funeral was full of dramatic fainting and howls
of grief echoing as far as the Ditlhako Hills. Tears fell by the bucketful
and nearly succeeded in creating the villages missing namesake. The
husbands stood at the back of the gathering wearing variations on the
theme stern face while the minister said his last words. When it was

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time to pour dirt on the coffin of McPhineas Lata, the husbands rushed
past their crying wives and grabbed up the shovels. Some even came
prepared with their own to make the work faster. Indeed, no one could
remember a burial that had lasted for so short a time. No sooner had the
wives heard that first shovelful of soil hit against the wooden coffin, as
they were still organizing themselves for their final grand crescendo of
wailing, than the soil was seen to be heaped into a great mound over the
grave. The men then piled stones on top, of a great number sure to keep
McPhineas Lata firmly in his eternal bed. The men stacked the shovels
by the grave, slapped the soil off their hands, and led the way back to
the village leaving all their McPhineas Lata problems in the cemetery for
good. Or so they thought.
As the husbands made their happy ways to Ema Rengwe Bar,
MmaTebogo, one of McPhineass greatest fans, lingered behind looking
longingly at McPhineas Latas grave. She wondered how the women
of Nokanyana would manage without such a talented man. She also
wondered what the women would do with all of their spare time.
There was only so much husband haranguing a woman could stand.
She thought about how much she personally would miss McPhineas
Lata and without so much as a warning her mind floated away into
McPhineas Lata Land.
Naledi Huelela stopped on the thin lane leading from the cemetery
to the village and looked back at McPhineas Latas grave and spotted
MmaTebogo. What does she think shes doing? she asked with
indignation. The wives stopped and turned to see MmaTebogo lying
on top of McPhineas Latas grave. She cant do that! Naledi said. She
felt quite proprietal over McPhineas Lata since he had died in her bed
in the middle of one of his more gymnastically performed sessions. It
really had been quite extraordinary what he could get up to. People said
he read books.

* * *
Read books? Bongo responded with a sceptical air when asked by the
husbands who had gathered at Ema Rengwe Bar after the funeral.
Though they had left the cemetery in a jovial and confidant mood,
a comment by Zero Maranyane put paid to that. He had looked up from

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his first beer and said, I doubt our wives will forget him as quickly as
we will.
It was a bitter taste of what their McPhineas Lata-less future was
going to hold. No, Nokanyana wives would not forget McPhineas Lata.
It would have been better if he had lived to a ripe old age where his
muscles and frail, old man body would have let the wives down and
would have had them drifting back to their hard-done-by husbands.
Instead, he died as virile as ever, for gods sake, he died in the act of one
of his more acrobatic performances, or so the husbands had heard.
The husbands were in a predicament. They knew enough to realize
that a dead and buried McPhineas Lata didnt mean dead and buried
McPhineas Lata memories. Memories that would likely swirl and twirl in
their wives mind, adding salt and strength until McPhineas Lata became
an untouchable super-sex hero with whom they could never compare..
They realized then that they had quite a problem with McPhineas Lata
dead and buried. Their wives had been almost manageable when he was
around, but now the husbands expected the worst.
So they grilled McPhineas Latas left sidekick, Bongo. McPhineas
Lata reading books? No, he was far too lazy for that. Mostly, I always
put it down to a good imagination, Bongo offered. Imagination? the
husbands asked. If that was the case, they were most certainly doomed.
RraTebogo stood up to address the husbands. He was in the same
rudderless boat as they were, but he knew they needed a plan if there was
to be any hope at all. Men! Men! If McPhineas Lata had imagination,
why cant we get some of it? Why not? Just because we never had
imagination before, doesnt mean we cant change. To be honest, I dont
think we have a chance if we dont. Then he turned to McPhineas Latas
right hand sidekick, Cliff, So did he ever give you any pointers? Any
advice?
Cliff, not the brightest bulb in the box, looked to Bongo for help.
He did say once that it was good to regulate speed, Cliff offered up as
assistance. The crowd nodded in approval.
Some took out pocket-sized notebooks and wrote down the advice,
but before they put a full stop on the sentence, Bongo added, But he
said speed was also dependent on the womans likes and dislikes. The
crowds elation at their perceived progress fell like a lead balloon when
they found they were back to the start line.

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A particularly gnarled and knotty fellow named Tobias Oitlhobogile

stood up. Hunched over, he said in a battered voice, Maybe we should
work together to come up with McPhineas Latas method. I dont see any
of us finding it out on our own. The husbands nodded. It was better that
way, at least if they failed, which in all likelihood would be the inevitable
outcome, together it wouldnt feel so personal. And they could always
meet at Ema Rengwe to commiserate; at least that would be something
to look forward to.
So while the wives were fighting it out, trying to climb on top of
McPhineas Latas rocky grave to give him a few last humps, the husbands
made a plan of how together they would, by the process of elimination,
come up with McPhineas Latas secret for satisfying their wives.
RraTebogo, the headmaster at the local primary school, rushed to
collect a blackboard which he and Ntatemogolo Moeng carried back to
the bar . They would use it to map out their plan. They knew that there
were only so many things that one could do when it came to making love
so they divided the work into a few main categories. The husbands had
decided to work in a logical, deductive manner. They would start broadly
and work down to the intricate details. All evidence collected would be
brought back to Ema Rengwe, discussed, and compiled into notes by the
elected secretary, Mr Mokwadi Okwadile, the local accountant. They
were going to be systematic and with a good effort by everyone, they
were almost assured of success.
The women trickled home from the cemetery over the next week,
tired and hungry and more surly than usual. A thunderstorm on the
weekend meant no woman could buck and ride on the grave as she
mourned McPhineas Lata, and the men knew the time had come to
begin collecting the information they needed.
RraTebogo was given the broad topic of foreplay. Once Tebogo,
their son, was born almost thirty-six years previously, RraTebogo had
thought as the natural course of things, foreplay should be abandoned
in lieu of sleep. Reintroducing such a long forgotten activity after such
a substantial period of time proved to be a bit touch and go. On his
first attempt, which even he recognized later as slightly overambitious,
MmaTebogo stuck her head under the covers and responded What the
hell do you think youre doing Old Man? Lost for words, RraTebogo
rolled over and went to sleep.

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The next day he decided hed have to take things a little slower.
Before getting down to business, he rubbed her right shoulder for three
minutes. The time-span he knew for certain as he made sure the digital
alarm clock Tebogo had bought them for Christmas was positioned
at the correct angle as to be seen from the bed. Then he stroked her
left side four times in sequence and then promptly proceeded with the
business. Since MmaTebogo neither shouted nor hit him, he marked it
up as a success and passed his news on to the others that night at Ema
Rengwe.
Mokwadi looked up from his notebook, his eyes swimming behind
his thick, Coke-bottle glasses. Was that four minutes on the shoulder
and three strokes on the side?
No, RraTebogo corrected. Three minutes on the right shoulder
and four strokes of the left side. Dont forget that left. I might be a
bit subjective, but it seemed that the left side is the right side for the
stroking. Anyway, well know soon enough.
And indeed they would, for once something was seen to work all of
the husbands took the bit of information home and put it into practice
in their beds. So for a week of nightly sessions in each and every home
in Nokanyana, husbands were giving their wives three-minute rubs of
the right shoulder and four strokes of the left side before getting down
to the business. The wives were curiously quiet throughout the week. A
few hardcores still climbed up the hill to the cemetery to cavort with the
memory of McPhineas Lata, but the rest stayed at home, more confused
than anything. Something strange was happening in Nokanyana and
they didnt want to be up on top of McPhineas Latas grave and miss the
uncovering of all this mysterious activity.

* * *
Back at Ema Rengwe the husbands were in a jubilant mood. Things
were going well with the foreplay. It is time to move on! RraTebogo
said, bringing out the heavy blackboard from the bar storeroom. Okay
Ntatemogolo Moeng. Youve been assigned breasts, any progress there?
The husbands eyes moved to the old man sitting on a stool in the
corner. He stood up straight and repositioned his jacket, circa 1972,
evidenced by the massive lapels and 4 cm by 4 cm checked pattern,
red on tan. Thank you, Modulasetilo. I am happy to report that I have

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nothing at all to report. The old man bowed slightly and repositioned
himself with no small amount of effort on the tall stool.
Well, have you tried anything? RraTebogo asked in desperation.
Even a negative result is helpful. The husbands nodded their heads.
They all knew that a hard smack from a big, disagreeable wife would
teach them a lesson they wouldnt soon forget.
Ntatemogolo Moeng stood up again. Thank you Modulasetilo. Yes,
I have tried a few things but they seem to have just made MmaMoeng very
annoyed. She has taken to bringing a softball bat to bed, so considering
my age and the fragility of my bones, I thought it best to stop along the
way. It was a matter of health. He climbed back up on the stool.
RraTebogo was annoyed. Bloody hell man, just tell us what you
did so we all avoid it. I dont think any of us cherish the idea of getting
hit in the head with a bat!
Thank you, Modulasetilo. I can say that it appears squeezing of
breasts is a bit tricky considering all of the patterns and rhythms and
varying levels of pressure I really didnt know where to start. And
then, I know some of you more ambitious young men might even add
in some mouth activity. I just didnt know where to start, honestly, so
I thought since the two milk cows in my kraal seemed to accept the
pattern I used on them, I started there. Sort of a milking action. But
as I said, MmaMoeng didnt take kindly to that. As he climbed back
up on the high stool, the husbands let out a collective groan and shook
their heads.
RraTebogo tried to be respectful of the old mans age. Are you
saying you were milking your wife?
Ntatemogolo stood up. Yes, Modulasetilo, that is exactly what I
am saying, but be warned, I wouldnt advise it. He sat back down.
RraTebogo looked at Mokwaledi. Did you write that down? We
certainly dont want to go that route again. He turned to the husbands.
Does anybody have anything to report? Anything at all? He couldnt
help but sound discouraged. He knew a few shoulder squeezes and
side strokes were not going to push the legend of McPhineas Lata out
of the wives minds. I have noticed a few of our wives have taken to
drifting back to the grave in the late afternoon. We husbands are losing
ground!
RraTebogo looked around and saw nothing but a crowd of
disappointed faces. Come on men, we need to put in more effort. Then

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hesitantly, the secretary raised his hand. Yes, Mokwadi, do you have
something for us?
Im not quite sure. As you know, I was given speed as my area, but
I discovered something that has nothing to do with that. I dont know if
it is in order to mention it or not.
Give it over Man! Cant you see were desperate here?
Well, I was experimenting with quite a fast speed and
MmaMokwadi shifted to get a better view of the TV and I slipped off
her and fell to the side. I happened to settle right next to her and since I
was slightly out of breath, being not used to such high-energy activity, I
was breathing hard right in her ear. Suddenly she picked up the remote
and shut off the TV. As the week progressed, I added a few flicks of my
tongue and kisses on her neck and I believe Im on to something.
The Nokanyana husbands burst into cheers. Some rushed forward
and slapped the shy accountant on the back.
RraTebogo stood up to get some order. Okay, okay. This is
only going to work if we can reproduce the moves in our own homes.
Mokwadi, show us on the blackboard. The slight man stood up and
took the chalk. He quickly drew a diagram complete with arrows and
times as to how the husbands should approach this new move. The
house agreed it should be inserted in the routine after the shoulder
rubbing and the side-stroking, and before the business. That night the
Nokanyana husbands went home a happy lot. They began to believe
that they actually could replicate McPhineas Latas moves and that their
wives would forget all about that dead wife-troubler.

* * *
MmaTebogo was at the communal tap filling her water tank when
Sylvia Okwadile pushed up with her wheelbarrow loaded with two large
buckets. They greeted each other and sat quietly together; Sylvia on the
edge of the wheelbarrow, MmaTebogo on a turned up cement block,
both nibbling at the words they wanted to say while watching the thin
stream of water fall from tap to tank. Too bad about McPhineas Lata,
MmaTebogo started, hoping that Sylvia would pick it up and lead them
to the topic filling both of their minds.

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Sylvia adjusted the purple and red doek on her head, and then
glanced at MmaTebogo from the corner of her eye. Everything fine
there at home? she asked.
Yes, MmaTebogo answered. Why do you ask?
Nothing unusual? Sylvia wanted a bit more before she let her
tongue wag freely.
Well, now that you mention it. And MmaTebogo began explaining
the changes taking place in her matrimonial bed.
Sylvia listened, but like most people, she listened through ears that
filtered things to be skewed in a general direction already decided by
her. When MmaTebogo finished she asked, So is it three minutes on the
right shoulder and four strokes on the left side?
MmaTebogos eyes widened. Yes! Yes! That is exactly it! Every
night like clockwork. Then there are a few minutes of blowing in my ear,
five to seven kisses on the neck, and then the business.
Aha! I knew it! Sylvia said, jumping to her feet. She now had
enough evidence to confirm what she already believed. She told
MmaTebogo her theory. Hes here with us. I knew he couldnt just
leave like that. McPhineas Lata has taken up the bodies of our husbands.
He has taken spiritual possession of the husbands of Nokanyana.
MmaTebogo, a practical woman, said, Do you think so? Can that
even happen?
Sure, why not? What else could it be?
MmaTebogo had to agree she had no answer to that question.
Maybe Sylvia was right. The two decided to call the wives to see if in
their bedrooms they were experiencing the same transformation.
It starts with three minutes on the left shoulder, Karabo John
said the next morning, at the meeting at the church at the end of the
village.
Left? Now thats an interesting twist, MmaTebogo commented.
Why would McPhineas Lata change things for only one of the wives?
The wives nodded their heads in agreement. It was indeed unusual.
Maybe the theory was not correct after all.
But then Karabo John remembered, Okay, no you know
Dimpho has a problem, he never could keep left and right straight.
The wives giggled. That was the answer then. It was true, they decided,
McPhineas Lata had not left them when he died, he had only taken up
residence in each of their husbands bodies. They were so relieved. Many

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had wondered how they would go on without their weekly visits with
McPhineas Lata and the grave humping was just not cutting it.
Now its even better, Naledi Huelela added. Now we all get
McPhineas Lata every night. No more sharing!
He really is a wise man, MmaTebogo said, nodding thoughtfully.

* * *
As the sun set in Nokanyana, husbands and wives had big, wide smiles
planted firmly on their faces and deep in their hearts. Once darkness
descended, they hurried off to the bedrooms, leaving children to fend
for themselves; favourite television dramas were abandoned in this rush,
as husbands and wives could hardly wait to discover what new betweenthe-sheets tricks and treats McPhineas Lata had in store for them.

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